The Moth

by Poetry

Lit by the dulling drunks,
& lonely matches,
a moth climbed the shadows;
thought of you,
thoughts of me, so
far away now;

How your light came breaking
through the me of being me;
How soon I became a moth,
desperate in your darkness,
fleeing only the shapes
of things to come.

Furious, & high, & hating it, I
resolved to get clean; I limped to the
carnevale, beneath burning ferris wheel,
spinning past the mad dancing & screaming all
to the LEDs in their ears;
& glittering demon guards indulged
in All Star & mockery &
other works, & I
disposed of my being and bodies in
the general waste; non-recyclable;
broke the spoon – abandoned oblivion
in separate bins; snapped all
the needles & buried them
in the linings of my boots – if
I can’t get high,
no one will.

I walked for three hours,
dodging fluorescent tripwires, landmines that
wavered & shuddered in the dark;
mad hands reaching out from mass-produced
birth canals – I walked until the nightmares
now pleasures
vomited fields, & tents, & innocent people
distracting themselves just for
a few days at a time – I walked until
Hell faded away.

I returned, beneath the banners
of suicide-finally-cum-finality,
the Moth
had crawled inside & exuded its own
light curving
a perfect body; had crawled
inside & found my light
was fiction – a writer’s tool; a trick of the moon; crawled
inside & found no light but, instead,
seemed desperate
to revel
in the darkness
it found there.

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Carey Poet
modern poetry